"Well, they won't wear you down," her father said flatly. "It's just a matter of being more strong-willed than they are. Don't tell us you aren't aggressive, because you can be if you have to be. When you don't like what they're saying, just tell them it's not acceptable. Tell them you're going home. I'll bet their tongues are hanging out for this deal and if you started for the airport they'd chase you and beg you to come back."
Miranda tried to envision the Chinese officials she had dealt with chasing her with their tongues hanging out, and she burst out laughing.
"What?" her father demanded.
"They would never be seen with their tongues hanging out," she said. "They're very uptight."
"You mean they're proper?"
"Very."
"And respectful?"
"Very."
"But not pleasant"
"Not especially. They're controlled and tenacious and determined to make the biggest profit they can."
"They sound like capitalists," her mother said.
"They're communists!" her father exclaimed.
"They're not communists or capitalists," Miranda said. "They're businessmen."
And with that, she knew she had taken the first step in understanding China. Li would be impressed, she thought.
And when she told him that night, he was. "An excellent observation," he said, opening a bottle of red wine. They had arrived at the restaurant a few minutes earlier and he had led her through the noisy, cavernous room, crammed with round tables for twelve, to a row of doors in the far wall. Opening one of them, he let Miranda go ahead, into a small private room. In the center a round table was set for two; in a comer stood two deep armchairs, with a small cinnabar table between them. The walls were of red damask hung with Chinese landscapes, and light came from lanterns and two flickering candles on the table.
Miranda stood just inside the door, alarmed by the intimacy of the room. A bordello. What did he think—?
"Pleasant, isn't it?" Li said. "My partners and I thought Beijing needed something like this."
"Your partners?" Her voice was tight, but he seemed not to notice it.
"Four of us own the restaurant."
She thought of asking him how people could own private businesses in China, but she was too upset. / should tell him to take me back to the hotel. But the words would not come. All day she had looked forward to the evening, storing up things to tell him, taking pleasure in the idea of sharing her day with him, and even in her anger she could not end it before it had even begun. / could tell him I want to sit out there, in the big room,
"What is it?" he asked. "You're angry."
She had been looking around the room; now she found herself staring at the table, perfectly set for two people. Li's eyes narrowed, as he understood. "That is an insult to me."
"That's too bad," she said, finally regaining her voice. ''You've insulted me.''
'"Lao tian," he said in exasperation. "Why are you such a child? I brought you to one of the finest restaurants in Beijing, I offered you a
room with more beauty and comfort than the main room, and privacy and quiet if you want them. I did not say that we had to close the door. I would never say that to you."
Miranda's face grew hot. Damn him. He's so superior — that damned Asian superciliousness — I'm getting so tired of it . . .
But he's right. I decided, much too fast. . . . Why was I in such a hurry?
"You're right," she said. "I'm sorry, I really am sorry. I was wrong. It's just that... it's a lovely room, but, you know, it does look like a ... at least what I think a ... It does have an illicit look."
He smiled easily, the storm passed. "Private is the word. Privacy is much harder to find in Beijing than sex. By the way, the table can be expanded to seat ten, so these rooms are used mainly for business." He gazed at her for a moment, as if waiting, but she did not move ft^om the doorway, and so he did. Casually, he sat in one of the armchairs, legs crossed, at ease. "We're famous for our dumplings, and once again I've taken the liberty of ordering for us. I also brought this wine, in case you're getting tired of beer."
"French estate wine," Miranda said, making out the label from where she stood. "In Beijing."
"One can get anything in Beijing. And right now wine and liqueurs show up everywhere. Another symbol of growing wealth. Which means westernization." He took up the wine opener. "Will you not sit with me?"
Still standing near the door, she said, "I'm sorry my father can't see this room, and your restaurant. I told him today the people I'm working with aren't communists or capitalists, but businessmen."
He laughed. "An excellent observation. There are no serious political systems anymore. Just business. And connections. And money. Which, when you think about it, are all the same thing."
He was concentrating on the wine bottle. Miranda watched him, then glanced at the crowded restaurant, and finally took a deep breath. "It's so noisy out there. Could we close the door?"
"Of course," he said easily, and she closed it quickly, quietly, and went to the other armchair. She could feel her heartbeat, and knew that it was because of the room. She had apologized for thinking of it as illicit, but she could not banish its intimacy, and as she was engulfed by red damask walls and flickering candlelight, she felt she had stepped out of something, as one would a costume or a pair of heavy boots, leaving behind much of whatever had made her the person she had been, living the life she had known.
It was no longer a frightening feehng; actually, she felt quite well.
del
After a long day, she was grateful for the hushed room: a place apart from the teeming crush of the city and the fray of negotiations, apart from the world. Privacy, she thought. Silence.
Li filled their wine glasses. "To privacy and silence."
Startled, she paused, then raised her glass. "Thank you for both of them. Beijing certainly needs them, but so did I."
"Was it not a good day?"
"It was better than yesterday. And the afternoon was better yet."
"After you explained Chinese businessmen to your father? Neither communists nor capitalists?"
"Yes. Everyone began to seem almost ordinary."
"And were you more aggressive then?"
She tasted the wine. "Oh, this is very good. May I see the label?"
He gave her the bottle. "Are you familiar with burgundy wines?"
"I'm not familiar with any wines. I just like to know what I'm drinking."
"Very wise." He waited while she read the label. "So you were not more aggressive, even when you knew how ordinary we all are."
She set down the bottle. "You're not."
"Thank you. I hope not, because I think by ordinary you mean dull and predictable. But it is difficult to know who is ordinary today, and who is different. In fact, there is more difference between generations in China right now than between Chinese and foreigners."
"That can't be true."
"Oh, it most certainly is. Our young people have become like Americans: they don't care about politics; they only want to make money and pile up possessions and live the good life: restaurants and nightclubs, designer clothes, fast cars, travel abroad."
She felt herself tighten up again. "That's how you define Americans?"
"There are many ways to define a people. I should have said most Americans, not all. And most French and Germans and Russians and Egyptians and everybody else."
"But not you?"
"I have a comfortable life, but it is not my only goal."
"What is?"
He smiled. "That is a long story. Are you ready for dinner?"
"Yes."
At the table, he held her chair for her, then pushed a button in the wall. Almost immediately a waitress appeared carrying a steamer basket of woven bamboo. She set it in the center of the table, lifted off the lid to reveal four tiny dumplings, and left, closing the door behind her.
"Shrimp," Li said and used his chopsticks to set two dumpHngs on Mir
anda's plate, and two on his own. He pulled a shallow, divided serving dish close to them. "These are for dipping. Be careful of this one; the chilies are quite hot."
Miranda gazed at the white pouches on her plate, no more than an inch across, their tops pinched together, their surfaces glistening. They looked slippery. And she had nothing to use but her chopsticks. Finger food. It must be finger food. And is this all there is for dinner? These tiny things?
"We will have fourteen baskets," Li said, neatly picking up a dumpling with his chopsticks, "each with a different kind of dumpling. If that is too much for you, we can stop any time."
Twenty-eight dumplings? How do these people stay so thin?
"Absolutely not," she said. "I don't want to miss one of the fourteen; I might miss the best." She clamped her chopsticks around a dumpling, and lifted them. The dumpling fell to the plate, bouncing once. She tried again, and then, grimly, again. When, yet again, it fell, she began to see the humor in it. "I don't know how the Chinese stay thin, but I know how tourists do it; they don't eat. Can I stab it?"
He laughed. "Anything you want."
"No, I'll do it right." She tried again and by the fifth try figured out how to wedge the dumpling securely. Timidly, she dipped it in the red mixture and ate the whole thing at once. "Oh, how wonderful," she murmured, and was more reckless with the second, swirling it in the red dip before popping it into her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes; she gasped for breath.
"A little too much," Li said with a smile. "The other dip is soy sauce; you might want to try it."
Miranda drank her wine, and slowly her breathing returned to normal and she could feel her tongue again. The waitress returned, deftly replacing the empty steamer basket with a new one. "Pork," said Li, and once again placed two tiny dumplings on Miranda's plate. This time she picked one up with ease, and smiled at Li. "It's like passing a test."
He raised his glass. "To passing all the tests that stand in our way."
They touched their glasses. And then the waitress was back. Li spoke a few words to her and she turned red. She set down the new steamer basket and left. "What did you say to her?" Miranda asked.
"I told her she should not rush us; that we prefer pauses between the servings. I had told her that this afternoon, but she is new and she forgot."
"But it seems that food always comes quickly here, at least wherever I've been, so far."
"You're right; China hasn't learned the art of leisurely dining. For centuries people were on the edge of starvation so they grabbed and gobbled whatever they could. Now, everyone is too busy making money to relax at a dinner table. But in some places, that is changing. A few more years, a few more lessons about the way the rich behave in western countries, and we too will have three-hour dinners." He put two more dumplings on Miranda's plate, "Sweet bean paste. These you do not dip in the sauces."
"Sweet? But... this can't be the end of dinner."
"No, no, we have eleven baskets to go. In China, sweets are served alternately with other dishes; it creates balance and harmony."
"Goodness. I'll have to tell Lisa and Adam; anything that moves dessert forward they'd like."
"They must have been happy to talk to you today."
"They were. In fact, they told me more about themselves, even what they were thinking, than when I'm with them. Usually they come home from school and can't wait to go off with their friends."
"And at night?"
"They have homework, they talk to their friends on the phone, they read in their rooms. But it's not that they're so busy; I told you, I'm not the one they want to confide in. They don't think I understand them or sympathize with them the way their friends do, or even care about them in the same way."
"Does that bother you?"
"Of course. Except, they're right, you know."
"You mean, you seem ancient to them."
"That's part of it. And I really don't see the world as they do. I love them and they know that, but their tragedies just aren't as tragic to me as they are to them, their agonies aren't as agonizing ... even their triumphs seem more fantastically triumphant to them than to me. I just can't get inside their feelings."
"No parent can do that."
"Maybe not, but I'd Like to."
"No, no, it would not work. Young people need their own dreams. Parents should not try to influence their visions any more than they should try to force love."
"Did you try to influence your children's visions?"
"Once. A long time ago. I have not tried since then, and now I do not want to share their vision; it is a warped one."
"Warped? What does that mean?"
He refilled their wine glasses. "Have you heard of the Cultural Revolution?"
"Yes, of course. It was a very bad time."
"It was a terrible time. It showed us that decency defines a loser; that what wins is indifference, callousness, cruelty, brutality. That was the lesson of the Cultural Revolution."
"You don't believe that."
"That indifference and cruelty win? Of course I do,"
"But you're not. .."
"No, I am not indifferent. Nor callous, nor brutal, nor cruel. And so I am not a winner."
"But you are. You have a good life. You own this restaurant. You have your own company. You said it was a good life."
"Ajid it can be taken from me in a minute. The ones who have that power are the winners. That is the history of China, and the Cultural Revolution showed us that nothing had changed. A whole generation of us grew up in the early years of the communists; we believed absolutely in the Party; we were convinced that we were building a new world. And we were kicked in the teeth by the Culmral Revolution."
"Why?" Miranda asked. "Why would anyone let something like that happen?"
"Because winners want to stay on top; it is no more complicated than that. What terrifies winners most is the danger of sinking into the mass of losers. And so, in 1965, when there was a power struggle in the government, some leaders solidified their power by tearing the country apart. They gave young people, teenagers, mostly, a glorious vision of paradise, a lying vision, and told them to build it by destroying the society we had. The young people worshiped those leaders, partly for that vision, but mostly for the freedom the leaders gave them. They were told to defy their parents and teachers, and to denounce them to Party officials for any suspicious behavior, such as criticizing the government, admiring western culmre, praising classical education or freedom of the press or democracy ... the list was very long."
"And your children were involved in that?"
"At first they were too young, but growing up in such a time set them against me. I was not with them the whole time, but I knew from neighbors that they were—what do you call it? Dangling? Dangling out with—"
"Hanging out?"
"Yes, hanging out with the Red Guards and speaking against me."
He turned his wine glass within his fingers. "For us, those years were anarchy; for children they were a ten-year holiday. The government ordered free travel for them on trains throughout the country, and free food wherever and whenever they asked for it. The leaders told them to smash anything that was intellectual or part of the past. So these children roamed China like packs of wild dogs, egged on by the government to destroy in the name of creating a better tomorrow.
"But they created nothing. They shut down the schools, so no one was educated. They smashed hundreds of our greatest temples and art works. They burned entire libraries. They ruined hundreds of thousands of lives by false accusations and drove many to their death. And at the same time the government sent millions of professors, writers, doctors, and business professionals into far-off rural areas to work as laborers. They said we had become elitist and needed to be close to the common people. What they really wanted was to destroy the will of anyone who might have an independent thought."
"You were sent away?" Miranda asked. "Was that because of your American father? Did anyone know you had an Ame
rican father?"
"Everyone knew it. All those informers, you know." The door opened and the waitress peered in. Miranda looked startled. "No, she is not one," Li said, smiling. He beckoned to the waitress, and watched her exchange steamer baskets and set two sauce dishes on the table. "Duck," he said. "With plum sauce."
Miranda looked at the smooth pouches in the steamer. "How do you know what's inside them? They're all identical."
"I know what I ordered."
"You remember all fourteen, in sequence?"
"I have an excellent memory. It is a blessing and a curse." He served their dumplings. "Yes, my American father was a mark against me, and against my mother, too. She was sent to a village near Tibet; she was already sick and could not take the cold and the meager portions of food and working fourteen hours a day in the fields. She died within a year. I was sent to make bricks for kilns—"
"Bricks? Where?"
"A village named Mianning, not far from my mother, as it happened, but we were deep in the Himalayas and there was no road between her village and mine. I never saw her again after we were forced to leave the farm."
"And your wife? Where was she?"
"Well, that is a different story." His face was impassive. "She
thrived during the Cultural Revolution; she became an informer, denouncing many of our friends as subversives, especially writers and college teachers. Eleven of them committed suicide; most of the others died in prison while she rose in Party ranks, rewarded for her patriotic fervor. She also knew whose bed to sleep in. When I returned from Mianning, she had moved to Shanghai and I did not try to find her."
"And she died?"
"She was beaten to death in her apartment. The killer was never found. It could have been someone she denounced; it could have been a quarrel with a lover. But I think she fell from favor with the Party and they got rid of her, because there was no public announcement or investigation of her death. It was a long time ago; she has been forgotten."
"Not by you, with your excellent memory."
A Certain Smile Page 8
